


The New Reign of Onon Khan: How Ariq Böke Saved the Mongol Empire

by DaharMaster



Category: Mongolian History RPF
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:19:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaharMaster/pseuds/DaharMaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though hard pressed and nearly defeated several times, Ariq Böke managed to turn the war around in his favor by returning to the tactics of his grandfather, Genghis Khan, and conducting a guerrilla war in the mountains and river valleys of northern Mongolia until at last he was able to capture his rival claimant to the title of Khan, Kublai Khan, in a surprise lightning raid, and end the civil war in his favor.</p>
<p>Now, however, he is left with a broken, war-torn, and divided empire, few allies, and too many enemies for comfort. Uniting and ruling this vast empire, it seems, might be harder than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Reign of Onon Khan: How Ariq Böke Saved the Mongol Empire

**Author's Note:**

> I'm no world renowned Mongol historian, but my intent is to play this out and represent the characters, culture, and everything else as realistically as I can. That said, I'll probably make the odd mistake or overlook something here or there so cut me a little slack.
> 
> Now the way I'm writing this is a bit different from how most people, including myself, write. I literally have no idea what's going to happen. Think of it kind of like a simulation. I'm going to just let the story play out in the way I think it most likely would without any plan or preconceptions.
> 
> I'll be doing my best to balance this, however, with telling a good story, and when it comes down to it, if I'm in a position where I have to pick one or the other, I'm going to pick telling a good story.
> 
> It should also be noted that, while I'll try to use them sparingly and/or provide definitions, there will be a lot of Mongolian history-specific words and the like. In general, at least a basic background knowledge of Mongolia and its history is expected, though hopefully not required.

* * *

 

_"How odd,_

_what a symbol can say,_

_that words,_

_cannot."_

_\- Anonymous_

 

* * *

 

Xiajin sat impatiently in the Ariq Böke's surprisingly simple ger, the round felt tents in which all steppe peoples lived.. It was somewhat larger than most other gers, capable of seating perhaps fifteen in total, and a bit more richly adorned, but one would hardly guess it belonged to the grandson of the great Genghis Khan, and the man who would now lead the empire that the Khan of Khans had built.

It had taken her some time, but Xiajin had come to view this ger as home, a place of comfort and relative safety, a place where she and her husband could be together. When she had first been sent north as a gift from the Song Dynasty in southern China as a young girl, the very notion of a ger seemed far too exposed and dangerous. She had been five years of age and Ariq had been nine when they first met and were officially married.

Oh how she had detested the Mongol and all his kind, but especially him, for he seemed to epitomize everything about their culture; a trait she now admired in him. Fortunately for both of them Ariq's respect and gentle demeanor, his kindness and generosity won her over in time and the two fell madly in love. Although by tradition he could take many more wives, he chose not to, even when it might be politically prudent. Always he would say, "Any time I would be with them I would be thinking not of them, but of my little white cloud." That was his pet name for her.

Lately he had been very cautious, too cautious she thought, and had placed five of his most trusted men around the ger to guard both it and Xiajin. Should she choose to leave the ger for any reason, the bodyguards would automatically surround her in a tight formation, their eyes wide and alert. She detested this, but Ariq was more stubborn than an unbroken camel and she had half given up on the argument altogether.

There were whispers throughout the encampment that Xiajin was getting far too friendly with the man in charge of her personal guard, the one named Berkh. It was true that she commonly went on midnight walks away from the encampment and out of sight, as always retinue in tow, but whispering in a low voice with Berkh. The truth was much more benign.

Hidden behind a hillock, some trees, or rock formation, Berkh was teaching Xiajin to fight. They used thin meter long leather wrapped wooden rods that Xiajin was able to conceal in her furs. Often Berkh lamented that there was no feasible way to train her in the art of Mongol archery, for that was their real weapon, but this way she could at least always protect herself. Besides, by necessity she had learned long ago to ride like a Mongol.

Often they also sparred hand-to-hand and in both that case and the simulated sword fights, Xiajin found that all the grueling hours of dance practice and learning to sit and move with perfect posture that she had  _hated_ were now coming in handy. Even Berkh had to admit that she was virtually a natural, often devising brand new ways which would throw him off for a moment, allowing her to move in for a final blow.

 

* * *

 

Of all his brothers, Ariq had always been the "dark" one. His hair, his eyes, his sharp and sunken features, even his complexion seemed darker, but not as if he had spent time in the sun, more like he had rubbed coal and ash on himself. It gave him an otherworldly appearance. He had also always been the smallest, at least in build. He and Kublai were the same height, but all his other brothers were taller. And after all the hardship he had seen over so many years of fighting what seemed to be a losing battle, after all he had sacrificed, he was as lean and ragged as a beggar.

Looks were deceiving, however, for every ounce of flesh still left on him was lean muscle, taut sinew, whipcord thews. He still wore the faded blue silk deel robe beneath the ragged coat of furs he had worn beneath his armor three days earlier when he had finally captured his rebel brother. Both were covered with mud, blood, and worse, the fur matted and the deel torn in several places, but he did not care.

Ariq Böke walked deliberately forwards with long steady strides, a whole retinue of clerks, guards, courtiers, and more following several paces behind. His heart pounded in his chest. He had been dreading this moment and had not planned it out, but he knew it had to happen. He circled a cluster of gers and a square pavilion came into view, a large figure stripped to the waist and bound by both ropes and chains kneeling on the ground beneath it.

A hush fell over the retinue then as the figure on the ground slowly raised his stocky head, looking Ariq straight in the eye as he approached. Ariq held the man's gaze and neither said anything until Ariq too was beneath the pavilion.

"Brother..." Kublai said, his words distorted slightly by swollen lips and missing teeth as a result of the beating Ariq's men had given him upon his capture. Those men, Ariq would be proud to say, were now dead. Kublai might be the enemy, but he was still his brother.

"Kublai," Ariq said softly, kneeling in the mud so he was eye to eye with the other man.

"It has been so long since someone called me that," Kublai mumbled wryly, "Even my wives called me 'Great Khan'."

"Where is it?" Ariq barked suddenly, spittle flying from his pursed lips.

"Where is  _what_?" Kublai demanded wearily, rocking back and forth.

"My tamga! My seal! I know that traitor Ürüng Tash gave it to you after he stole it from me, so where is it?" growled Ariq. Kublai looked at Ariq with an odd smile then and cocked his head slightly. For a long moment neither spoke, then Kublai broke the silence.

"You mean to hold a qurultai, to be officially elected Great Khan, but you need that seal..." Kublai mused, "Well as you can see, I do not have it." Ariq nearly struck Kublai then, and would have under different circumstances, but it was not good to let one's followers see their leader lose his temper. Instead, Ariq took a deep breath, stood, and looked down at Kublai.

"It may interest you to know, brother," he said with venom in his voice, "That your punishment will be decided here tomorrow at dawn."

And with that, he strode off.

 

* * *

 

Toqar stumbled, trudged, and slogged his way through the knee-deep filth that the raid on Kublai's camp had created. It was mostly mud, but in the back of his mind he knew that a certain percentage of it was also blood, gore, dung, and perhaps things he did not even know he did not wish to know about. That was the kind of thought that had saved his life and won him the favor of Ariq Böke. He had been mistaken for an intruder when Ariq's army had been encamped near the Turnan Pass nearly three years earlier, and dragged before the Khan.

The Gods must have been looking after Toqar that day as it turned out that the Khan spoke a certain amount of the Uighur tongue and had a Uighur translator. Toqar was not quite fluent in Uighur, but he was nearly, and managed to talk his way out of the situation quite quickly. Ariq had been so impressed by the young man's intellect and eloquence that he offered him the position of Minor Adviser, a title made specially for him.

Given that for the last seventeen years of his life, Toqar had spent most of his time either looking up at the sky, speaking to travelers on the pass, herding goats for his father, or invariably being harassed and extorted by Uighurs, he accepted immediately. Admittedly, he was not the best with a sword or bow, and was only a competent rider, not a great one, but his mind is what the Khan, soon to be Khan of Khans, valued.

Ariq had been most generous in helping him hone his mind as well, providing him with all manner of tomes, manuscripts, tutors, maps, and information whenever possible. Still, occasionally, he did find himself in positions like this, squelching and squirming through the muck of battle in search of a seal. At least he wasn't the only one; nearly three hundred others were doing the same, overturning bodies, digging through the filth with their hands, some poor souls getting a foot stuck and falling in face first.

Just then a large man wearing the raiment of one of Kublai's personal bodyguards and sporting a neck wound that should have finished him off days ago groaned and shifted in the muck just to Toqar's side. Toqar only barely managed to resist the urge to jump back in surprise, a maneuver he knew would only end in him careening into the muck as well. This was not the first live one he had found that day, nor the first time he had scoured a battlefield and very matter-of-factly he drew his long curved peshkabz, or Khyber knife, and slogged towards the man.

The man had stopped moving, but beneath his breastplate Toqar could still detect very shallow breathing and so he moved in. The man was blissfully unaware of his doom even as it elegantly slit his throat. Toqar felt a pang of guilt, but reassured himself with the knowledge that even if he had tried to save the man, it was too late, and this was far more merciful. Still, he silently offered an apology to the Gods, but it felt like an empty gesture.

Ever since he had left home, he had encountered people of so many faiths he now doubted his own. Surely there could not be that many gods? And many of those who worshiped these unfamiliar deities claimed that their gods were the only gods. Some did not even believe in gods at all, they believed in nothing!

He shook his head and cleared the thoughts away, then stared at the corpse before him. While he had killed before, it had always been like this, never in heated battle, never against a real opponent. Did that make him a coward? He did not know. As he stared at the unmoving body he noted an oddity, the man was large, but showed no sign of fat anywhere except for a great bulge beneath his armor in place of his stomach.

Out of curiosity, he quickly slit the bindings on the man's breastplate and removed it then reached his arm up the long hauberk of scale mail he wore, garnering many strange looks as he felt around blindly. Then his hand latched on to _something_. It was big, metal, and heavy. With much difficulty, Toqar pulled it out.

And there it was, the tamga of the Khan.


End file.
